


when i'm like this (you're the one i trust)

by hellstrider



Series: Thousand Miles Verse [5]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bondage, Dom/sub, Gentle BDSM, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Subspace, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: the blue of the silk matches his eyes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Thousand Miles Verse [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587544
Comments: 10
Kudos: 453





	when i'm like this (you're the one i trust)

**Author's Note:**

> title from blinding lights by the weeknd
> 
> reupload
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier

The blue of the silk matches his eyes.

And the fabric _shimmers_ in the soft firelight like his eyes do, shimmers against Jaskier’s sweat-slick skin, wrapped up the entire length of his arms, from shoulder to delicate wrist, 

Shimmers where it's woven through the iron-wrought headboard, keeping Jaskier's arms suspended over his head, and the bard's fingers are curled so tight around the silken bonds his knuckles have gone white,

_And,_

His back arches _so_ sweet when Geralt trails reverent fingertips down his damp spine, as the Witcher noses through the soft hair under one of Jaskier’s bound arms, _thick_ with his scent, _and,_

The bard’s muscle _strains_ beneath his porcelain skin as he pants out a gasping, _sultry_ , “my _wolf,_ please _,_ ”

As Geralt fucks into the _tight_ clutch of his body, thrusts careful and _measured_ , purposeful and _driven_ , ever seeking the bundle of nerves inside Jaskier that makes him cry out in aching, _broken_ lyrics, a song of _devastated,_ utter _rapture,_

And Geralt doesn’t know how long they’ve _been_ like this,

Doesn’t know how long he’s had Jaskier bound to the headboard, _spread out_ , helpless and _so_ trusting beneath him,

And it _does something_ to him, the way Jaskier _trusts_ him like this, the way Jaskier _craves_ him like this,

Sets off a _new_ kind of instinct _deep_ in the shadowy pit of his gut,

Where he _rarely_ lets his desire wander,

Save for when Jaskier _begs_ him to, 

Begs him to cast his gaze into the _weary_ dark,

_But -_

Perhaps these wild desires aren’t so _dark,_ after all,

If Jaskier _trusts_ him like this, trusts Geralt to bind him to the iron-wrought headboard with _water-soft silk_ in a shimmering blue that matches his hazy, brilliantly _bright_ eyes, eyes that track Geralt’s face like true north, 

And maybe this isn’t the kind of brutal darkness that leaves _scars_ ,

But is more the gentle cloak of a _velvet-soft_ night,

The tender cradle of a dream-keeping _slumber,_

And it can’t be a _violent_ kind of dark,

Not when Jaskier is all _light_ ,

And Geralt can _feel_ it, as he rolls his hips, as he coaxes a burning, _savage_ pleasure through his lover, as he _worships_ what belongs to _him_ and him _alone,_

Can feel the way he chases the _sun_ through Jaskier's bones,

Can feel the way the shadow goes _gentle,_ because the _last_ thing in the world Geralt could ever harm is the beautiful little thing spread out beneath him,

So it can’t be _dark,_

Not if it’s _worship,_

And,

Jaskier’s thighs quiver and clutch at Geralt’s waist as his cock weeps over his clenching belly, pearly seed _drooling_ from a _slick,_ cherry-pink head, and he smells like _honey_ and _seawater_ , like life and _heat_ , and it’s making Geralt’s damn _mouth_ water,

But Geralt’s not _touched him_ , not _yet,_

And he doesn’t know how long they’ve _been_ like this,

But Jaskier is breathing thick and _heavy_ , fills his lungs with air that _reeks_ of sex, of myrrh and _musk,_ of _sweat_ and _need_ and _fierce_ , intense, _all-consuming_ desire,

The kind of desire that Jaskier sings of in the finest courts all over the damn northern kingdoms; it's the kind of desire that men have lived and fought and died for, the kind of desire that people would kill for, the kind of desire that could bring _ruin_ if it turned _sour_ , the kind of desire that has their souls _aching_ to unfurl from the cusp of their bones and never be parted again, _and,_

Geralt lets out a low breath as he runs a calloused palm over Jaskier’s fluttering ribs, as he caresses the slender line of his waist, as he curves his palm around the arch of his hipbone,

_And,_

It can’t be the _wrong_ kind of dark, this sort of thing,

But Geralt still feels _just_ this side of _savage_ as Jaskier arches up beneath him,

As Jaskier’s arms _strain_ against the shimmering silk binding them over his head,

As Geralt slides a thumb over his kiss-bitten lips, utterly _transfixed_ by the way Jaskier’s tongue curls around his finger, by the way Jaskier catches it between his teeth, 

And Geralt _moans_ , deep in his chest, when Jaskier clenches around his cock,

And he doesn’t _know_ how long he’s been buried in the _wet_ heat of the bard’s body,

But then Jaskier’s breathing, “ _harder_ , my wolf, like you _mean_ it,” and,

“I can _take it,_ darling, I promise you,” and,

 _“Please,_ Geralt,” 

And,

His voice is _wrung-out,_

So beautifully _hoarse,_

And Geralt knows he wants to be rendered _speechless,_

Knows that Jaskier wants to be made so _raw,_

 _Vulnerable_ in a way _only Geralt_ gets to see,

Because he trusts Geralt and Geralt _alone_ like this,

Trusts Geralt to bind him up and do with him as he _pleases,_

And what _pleases_ Geralt is;

Gently gathering Jaskier’s thighs in careful hands,

Pushing them back until the bard’s all but bent in _half,_

And Geralt swallows down the soft _whine_ that rolls from Jaskier’s tongue as he starts to fuck into him the way that will _bruise_ , the way that’ll have Jaskier feeling it for _days_ , the way that has Jaskier panting like a damn _animal_ as his arms strain, _desperate_ to _cling_ to Geralt the way he knows he _can’t,_

But,

“I’m _right here,_ ” Geralt burrs against Jaskier’s cheekbone, “let me _have_ you, little lark, let me have _all_ of you,” and,

“You know I _have you_ , sweet thing,” and,

“Nothing has _ever_ felt like you,” and,

“The way you _take me,_ Jaskier, _fuck,_ ” 

And,

Jaskier’s back crests with the force of the dulcet keen that _rips_ through him,

And his head falls back,

And Geralt’s instinct goes _haywire_ with the way the bard bares his throat, gleaming with sweat, ivory skin peppered with amethyst bruises in the shape of Geralt’s teeth, _and,_

Geralt slides a hand under Jaskier’s spine, right in the sweet, dimpled curve, lifts his arcing hips up, pumps hard and quick into the tight, clenching _heat_ of him, and Jaskier’s heartbeat is a _symphony_ ringing in Geralt’s ears, is the sweetest song he’s _ever_ heard, 

_And,_

The _first time,_

Jaskier comes undone without a Geralt laying a single finger on his weeping cock,

Comes undone with an _agonized_ cry that shoves Geralt right over his own edge,

And it’s like he’s coming _alive_ , as Jaskier comes undone, as he pulls Geralt over the ledge with him, and Jaskier’s seed is the _sweetest_ nectar Geralt’s ever had on his tongue,

And the bard’s chest rises and falls with swift, _desperate_ , hitching breaths as he _writhes_ beneath Geralt, as the last of his survival-driven armor starts to fall away, as he sinks into the place where words _fail_ his clever tongue, where _Geralt_ is all he knows, 

And,

Geralt slides from the heat of Jaskier’s body, burrs out a soft sound of comfort when Jaskier lets out a _frantic_ whine, when his hips _jump_ , when he utters a _fearful,_ tear-soaked, “ _wolf_ ,” but,

“Right here,” Geralt murmurs against the softening line of Jaskier’s spent cock, “I’m _right here_ , sweet thing,” 

And,

A high, _reedy_ cry breaks from Jaskier’s lips when Geralt starts to lick at his soft length, as he starts to nuzzle at his groin, as he bites over Jaskier’s twitching hips, 

Until the head of Jaskier’s cock is _dripping_ , until he’s become a thick line of _steel_ under the gentle caress of Geralt’s tongue,

Because these are the times when Jaskier _trusts_ Geralt enough the bard lets him do what he _pleases,_

And what _pleases_ him is;

Jaskier’s thighs gripping Geralt’s ribs as Geralt licks at him, as he tries his damndest to memorize the taste of him, to memorize the scent of them both, as pearly heat bleeds from Jaskier’s overworked cock, as the proof of life Geralt’s buried inside him oozes over the furs beneath them,

_And,_

He buries two thick fingers in the wet heat of Jaskier’s body as he swallows him down, tongue laving over the thick vein on the underside of the bard's cock, and something _primal_ unfurls up the length of Geralt's spine when Jaskier starts to cry out in _earnest_ , hips writhing in sinuous, straining waves, 

As Geralt coaxes the _finest_ prize he's _ever_ won out of Jaskier with a greedy, dripping tongue, 

As he drags a melody from Jaskier that only one _Geralt of Rivia_ has _ever_ heard,

Because Geralt _knows,_

Knows he’s the _only_ one Jaskier’s _ever_ trusted like this,

Trusted to break him in the way that _heals_ him at the same time,

So it can’t be _any_ kind of _wicked dark_ , this shadow that Jaskier bids Geralt to cloak them in,

Can only be the _velvet-softness_ of a devotion so _pure_ it’s like the starlit night sky,

And the Witcher has to grip the base of his own length to keep from spilling over the furs when Jaskier pants rough and harsh, when his hips snap and his cock pulses against Geralt's tongue, the white heat of his release the _finest fucking liquor_ he's _ever_ swallowed down, and the agonized _whine_ Jaskier lets out when he tries to curl into himself and is kept spread open by the bulk of Geralt's body is nothing short of _obscene,_

But,

"Not done with you yet, sweet thing," and,

"You know the word, don't you?"

And Jaskier huffs hoarsely, hips twitching as Geralt licks at a bruise, as the Witcher nuzzles at the crease of his groin,

_"Jaskier,"_

"Yes,"

"The word?"

"I remember,"

"Good,"

And Geralt drags his greedy mouth over the clenching plain of Jaskier's belly as a reward, skin still reeking of Jaskier's seed, _honey-seasalt-musk,_

And Jaskier's thighs try to shutter, clutching at the wide span of Geralt's shoulders as he kisses his way up the sweaty line of the bard's writhing torso,

And he isn't sure how long they've _been like this,_

But time doesn't seem to _exist_ here, anymore,

As his fingers fuck into the _tight_ heat between the bard's trembling, _clutching_ thighs, as Geralt buries his face against Jaskier's damp throat, and he breathes deep of his scent, curls his fingers until he's caressing the bundle of nerves inside Jaskier that makes him choke as Geralt worries at it, as he slides his free hand up one of Jaskier's silk-wrapped, straining arms, 

As Jaskier utters, _breathless_ , wretched, _wrecked;_

"Geralt, _Geralt_ , I _can't_ -"

But,

"You can," and,

"You will,"

And,

 _"Fuck,_ Geralt, _fuck_ , oh, _oh_ -"

 _“Shh,_ little lark,” the Witcher croons, right against Jaskier's ear, and something primal is slowly dripping over his ribs as he sinks down into the sheer _scent_ of the body beneath him, the body that trusts him to break it in the way that _heals_ at the same time, 

And Geralt drags his lips over Jaskier’s tear-gleaming temple as the bard comes apart for a third time with a _sob_ that plucks at Geralt’s damn heartstrings, a sob that breaks with sheer _relief_ as Jaskier breathes, “oh, _darling,_ ” like he’s been delivered from some kind of _evil,_

And Geralt burrs a thrum of _praise_ as Jaskier lets out another _breathless_ sob, as his throat vibrates with a grinding, _aching_ keen,

A wordless _plea,_

And Jaskier _reeks_ of soft, overstimulated _pain_ when Geralt sinks back into him, replacing meager fingers with the aching line of his cock,

But even though Jaskier reeks of a soft, _raw_ pain,

He groans and digs _demanding_ heels into Geralt’s thighs,

Arches up like he’s being _remade_ beneath Geralt’s hands,

And,

His heartbeat rings through Geralt’s _bones,_

As,

Geralt splays a hand over Jaskier’s hitching chest, and,

He rears back to drink in the sight of the bard,

_Which,_

Has something fanged and _red-eyed_ rearing up in Geralt’s gut,

Something that's _beyond_ primal,

Something that's _beyond_ human, _beyond_ Witcher,

Because,

Jaskier is _ruined,_

Arms _burnt_ by the bite of the silk wrapped around them, all the way to the shoulders, keeping them above his head, keeping Jaskier spread out _so_ fine beneath Geralt, 

And his lips are bitten _red_ , slick, _swollen,_

And his cheeks are _rosy-pink,_

Lithe, twisting body absolutely _drenched_ in sweat,

Sweat both his own and _not_ ,

And the way their scent mingles now has Geralt’s arms peppering with gooseflesh and his cock throbbing where it’s buried between Jaskier’s bruised thighs,

And his chestnut hair is a wild _mess_ , sticks to his brow in wet tendrils, and those _fucking eyes -_

 _Gods_ , those _eyes,_

 _“Look at me,_ sweet thing,” Geralt burrs, hands curling around Jaskier’s hips as he fucks shallowly into him, just this side of too _soft_ , the way that has Jaskier _panting_ and - and _drooling,_ Gods, he’s _drooling,_ pink tongue peeking out between his lips, _and_ ,

 _“Fuck,_ let me _have you_ , Jaskier,” and,

 _“All_ of you, little lark,” and,

 _“That’s it,_ love, that’s it,” and,

It’s _cruel,_ to wrap his hand around Jaskier’s half-hard cock, abused and forced into a _frenzy_ with the way Geralt’s broken him _open_ and left him so fucking _raw_ , 

But Jaskier doesn’t use the word they’ve agreed on for things like this, the word that will make everything _stop,_

And it’s _cruel,_ to wrap a calloused hand around him,

But the mangled _shout_ Jaskier lets out is as close to _heaven_ as something like Geralt will _ever_ reach,

And the bard is sobbing _proper_ as Geralt strokes him, as he fucks into him the way that he knows Jaskier _needs_ , fucks into him until the bed’s shaking and all Geralt _knows_ is the way Jaskier’s lithe body takes him _so fucking well,_ clenching so _tight_ around him,

And the Witcher gives into the _full_ brunt of his instinct,

Lets Jaskier’s scent _consume_ him,

Lets the wild desire _rip_ through him as keenly as an elixir, 

And Geralt thinks his eyes might just be black as he _growls_ Jaskier’s name, 

As Jaskier’s cock pulses in his hand, and Jaskier’s got nothing left to give, so he pulses _dry_ and _aching_ in Geralt’s hand, 

And he doesn’t cry out with this one,

_Just,_

Arches up so fine, head falling back with a rasping, feeble _gasp_ ,

And he’s otherwise _silent,_

Silent, as he lets Geralt do with him what he _pleases,_

And Jaskier is _limp_ now, limp, boneless, _malleable,_

As Geralt fucks into him, _consumed_ by the full brunt of his instinct,

As he noses over the bard’s furred chest,

As he licks through the fine hair under one of Jaskier’s silk-burnt arms, no longer straining against the binds that hold,

And Geralt takes what he pleases as he _drowns_ in the scent of his lover, in the sheer scent of Jaskier’s _skin_ , in the lingering cedar-smoke-rose of his cologne, nestled _right_ in the hollow of his damp throat, and,

A growl rips _unbidden_ up Geralt’s spine when the savage pleasure pooling in his gut whips into an _inferno,_

As he buries proof of possession between Jaskier’s thighs for a third time,

_And,_

He only lets himself _drift_ on the sweet, _satisfied_ relief of his final peak for a _moment,_

Because the _other_ half of this,

Of the times when Jaskier lets Geralt _break_ him,

Lets Geralt do as he _pleases,_

_Is;_

Geralt unwinding the silk from the iron-wrought headboard,

And he croons a soft, “ _hush,_ sweet thing,” when Jaskier _whimpers_ , when he starts breathing just this side of _too fast_ as Geralt carefully guides his arms back down, taking great pains not to move them too quickly, lest he shock the worn, _bruised,_ burnt muscle,

And _this,_

The tender _healing,_

Is almost as _sweet_ as the breaking,

Because after that breaking, 

_All_ Jaskier knows is _Geralt,_

And the bard is _quiet_ , so, _so_ quiet as Geralt unwinds the silk from his arms, the shimmering silk that matches his red-rimmed, _sky-blue_ eyes,

As Geralt, too-slow heart _aching_ with such _adoration_ it seems like it should be _impossible,_

Slides practiced hands down Jaskier’s burnt, _trembling_ arms, 

As Geralt _looms_ over him, a fortress between Jaskier and the rest of the world that doesn’t _exist_ for the bard, not right now, 

And he thumbs over Jaskier’s cheek, 

As he noses through his hair, 

And he guides Jaskier’s shaking, _exhausted_ hands to his chest, over his throat,

Gentles his burnt arms around his shoulders as Geralt wedges between his quivering thighs,

And Jaskier gazes at him through _dewy_ , diamond-keeping eyes, watches Geralt like he’s some new kind of _miracle_ , like he’s the first wonderful thing Jaskier’s _ever_ looked upon in the _entirety_ of his thirty-two years of living, _and,_

Geralt’s throat is _thick_ with such impossible, _blinding_ love as he gathers Jaskier up in his arms, 

And he doesn’t _dare_ try and drag Jaskier out of bed, not yet,

Doesn’t _dare_ drag him out of the haze of their _scent_ , of the careful, shielding afterglow that’s beginning to consume the wild, _savage_ desire,

The afterglow that’s just as velvet-soft as the nighttime dark, the one Jaskier begs Geralt to let loose,

All so he can sink into the place where Geralt’s the _only_ thing he knows,

And it’s such a show of _trust,_

The kind of thing that has Geralt’s gut clenching and his heart going as fast as it _ever_ does,

As he runs careful, reverent hands over Jaskier’s arms, 

As he drops _soft,_ open-mouthed kisses down the bitten column of Jaskier’s throat, 

As he speaks more willingly than he _ever_ does,

Says things like;

“I’m right here, love, _right_ here,” and,

“You did _so_ well, sweet thing, always do _so_ well,” and,

“I don’t know what God I pleased to _deserve_ a thing like you,” but,

“Must be the luckiest I’ve _ever_ gotten in my life, finding you,”

_And,_

Jaskier smears his cheek against Geralt’s, one trembling hand curling into his hair to cling _so_ tight,

And the bard starts to nose into Geralt’s throat as if he’s trying to hide there,

Starts to _squirm_ beneath him until his knees curl up to grip Geralt’s waist, until his arms start to hold onto Geralt’s scarred shoulders with an awakening strength, and Geralt lets a rumble of praise roll through his gut as Jaskier’s sweet, _slender_ body curls up into the cage of Geralt’s,

And clever fingertips start to dance over scars they’ve _long_ since memorized,

As Geralt breathes soft nothings, ghosting his lips over the edge of Jaskier’s jaw, up over his ear,

And,

_“Geralt,”_

“I’m here, little lark,”

And Jaskier lets out a faint note, a precious, _glassy_ thing that stays trapped in his throat, and Geralt’s fucking _bones_ ache with _how fucking much_ he -

“I love you,” he murmurs, spilling the words right against Jaskier’s kiss-bitten lips, “you _know_ that, don’t you?”

But Jaskier doesn’t get a chance to reply,

Because then Geralt’s curling his tongue up under the bard’s, 

And Jaskier’s hands sink into Geralt’s white hair as a soft, _aching_ breath comes pouring out from deep in his chest,

And he’s _shaking_ , still,

As Geralt tries to show him the meaning behind his words,

And this is how Geralt pulls Jaskier back together, is with;

Soft kisses that leave the bard _breathless,_

Careful hands that massage the pains from his silk-burnt arms, 

His clinging, bitten up thighs,

_And,_

It’s not leaving a single inch of Jaskier _untouched,_ whether by mouth or calloused fingers,

And it’s gathering him up _close,_

Listening to the way his heart begins to settle in his chest,

And it’s almost as beautiful as the breaking is, this careful _healing,_

Because then Jaskier’s curling a hand around the medallion around Geralt’s neck,

And he’s still soft and _malleable_ beneath Geralt,

But he’s _thrumming,_

Thrumming with a reawakening awareness,

As he emerges from the _gentle dark,_ the one Jaskier trusts Geralt enough to unleash upon him _here,_ in the sanctity of their bed,

_And,_

The mere _thought_ of it being _their bed_ has Geralt’s skin feeling tight, has his cock stirring, 

And a gentle, _sonorous_ laugh rolls through Jaskier’s chest, 

And his blue eyes are sharp and clever when Geralt tips back to drink in the sight of him, awake and _so_ brilliant, radiating a light Geralt can’t see but _feels,_

“Absolutely _insatiable,_ you are,” Jaskier murmurs, fingers tangling in the silver chain around Geralt’s throat, and the Witcher can’t fucking _help it,_ when he tips in to ghost his greedy lips over Jaskier’s; “utterly _unstoppable,_ ”

“Can you blame me?” Geralt burrs, and Jaskier grins against his tongue, “when it’s you?”

“I suppose not. I _am_ irresistible,”

And it’s Geralt’s turn to smile as he dusts fingertips over the bard’s silk-burnt arm,

As he meets sky-blue eyes with sun-touched gold, and,

“Are you alright?”

And Jaskier hums, splays lute-calloused fingertips over Geralt’s lips, huffs a laugh when the Witcher nips at them,

“With you? Always,”

And,

It could never be _dark,_

Not when there’s so much _light_ that shines between them,


End file.
